Equation Godspeed
by Cytrus
Summary: Forty seven seconds of existence. For the lives of two heroes, enough to change everything...


_Cytrus: Enjoy, contemplate, leave a review :)..._

**  
Equation Godspeed**

He is a person. You know him, don't you? He is in a situation. You've heard of such situations before, haven't you? So he is a person in a situation.

So what?

Let's imagine it.

Let's see it.

What if you could read his mind?

If you could read his mind, you would become aware of many a story he would like to tell you. You would get to know about the hours of conversation and contemplation he so desired. And you would understand that he had no time at all, not even enough to utter a single phrase to you.

What if you could see and hear all?

If you could, you would become a witness of swirling sickly-red lights mixing in with terrible roars of unknown source. You could perhaps see dozens of tables overturned, hear hundreds of footsteps, the white walls rebounding them, making them come back to you from every possible direction. Noticeable would be the humming of machinery, and seeable upon casting a glance the flickering of screens. Shapes moving around you; even that you would sense, and also the colours, black, red, grey and other ones; they would assault your eyes.

You could spare a single look at him, your ignorance notwithstanding. Brown fur, white coat. Silence.

The black chalkboard behind him covered with silvery patterns; a dance of knowledge and information he gave life to.

A plain white table nearby. He writes on it, on a single white sheet of paper, with blue ink.

For you, no more than a painting. You see, you hear, you feel; for him, the solution.

You can see and hear all.

So what?

Assume he had the time to explain it all.

You cannot inquire, because you do not inquire. What would he begin with, in our assumption? The beginning being in meaning and meaning coming from a being; the act of beginning has its origin in the being concerned. Consequently, we feel ourselves at liberty to assume his first words would concern his own person. In a way they would indeed.

Have you ever seen a desert? A simple question. It starts a conversation. It is not to be condemned. Obviously you have. An even simpler answer. You have no doubts. Who would have thought that he would smile sadly and, unbidden, you would question yourself a thousand times!

Can you listen to a tale of a desert? Can you perceive how warm and endless it is? Because his dream was to find one who would understand. So much more than perceive.

He tells you about how they look, mentioning the giant rocks strewn across the landscape. And with mountains, and cliffs, and their beauty, there would be much to tell. Yet even if his voice grew hoarse he would not falter until he described every single boulder to you. Because for him, it is an introduction to a story of beauty and greatness.

Vain was the thought you couldn't understand his science, as now he is speaking with words known to you and you still cannot fathom them. Now you see the border that always stopped you, now you realize the existence of a difference in knowing words and knowing their meaning. It's too late.

Hopefully, you would encourage him to continue. Maybe unaware why, maybe not willing to listen to him any further, but maybe you would. Hopefully you would.

His raving about plants is not what you expect from him. Not from the silent coyote who is constantly calculating, rarely sleeps and is never seen socializing. It is not something you could predict, not concerning someone you, after all, know so well.

They are not so showy as your are, but they have a certain charm. There is something heartwarming about finding a single flower in an endless desert. A life stranded in the middle of nowhere. A small and fragile life. Beautiful nonetheless.

And sand! Once in a lifetime you would have the chance to talk about sand! Appreciated, or not, a true miracle would occur, and you would be the sole witness. Because a grain of sand can only remain a grain of sand for so long…

He would talk for hours. One who didn't utter a word day after day would talk for hours when given the possibility, when given the smallest hope of acceptance.

And then you would understand. Although not the meaning of his words. You would understand that you have never seen a desert. That you haven't spared a single moment of your life to contemplate the life of another; another person, another life, another world.

You wouldn't notice how you have never met him, how you failed to see his true thoughts and motivations.

Somehow he would sense your feelings. His smile would diminish only a little. He would remain polite. You would never notice the difference.

Assume it ended differently; and he told you about the long roads splitting the desert…

But these are worthless assumptions. You lose your omnipotence, hear and see only what your senses limit you to. But with the loss comes recognition. You are bound by your emotions and thoughts. Your vision is obscured by your imperfection. Still, you comprehend more. You are a part of what is occurring

You panic like all those around you. You feel precious seconds passing by, seeping through your form before disappearing into nothingness. How futile it would be to try to catch these droplets of time! Even more so to run after them, trying to reverse what had already happened.

He, you, all those around you. You know what is to come. In a way you can see, predict, the future. Yet how can it be possible? If you can oversee the course set by it, why can't you change the past? What is the relation? The past set in stone resulting in the future, or the predictable future shaping the past to its preference?

With nothing you can do, you crave for an explanation. You are overwhelmed with your desperate need for a reason.

This time, you are spinning around, confused and dazed. The colors are hazy. A dream? Or a delirium?

Hundreds of faces appear and are gone in only a few seconds. Kids are running around. Laughter fills your ears and heart… laughter? You smile and you cry. Like any other would. Because this is what you once had. This is what you dream about now. What you hope to recreate in the future.

It was supposed to be like this. A carefree world. A happy world.

Once, there was no death and despair…

This is not a dream and no delirium. This is your hope and purpose.

This is your reason.

The next hundred images flash by so quickly you hardly have the time to register them. You are in some of them. You and the others you've met since that time…

In none of them is there laughter. Solemnity that had the time to make you sick radiates from each and every one.

Studying and questioning in vain you spent so much time…

Someone bumps into you and sends you sprawling. A distinctly physical feeling follows. In but a moment it all comes back to you. The sickly red lights, the overturned tables, the humming of machinery. It's all being embraced by a vivid glow. The fire leads an enticing dance of destruction, cheered on by frivolous sparks.

He is there, still. Relentlessly waving the sheet in the air, shouting for anybody to send it. Send it to a place you should remember…

It's all so hazy…

Were all your efforts really in vain?

It seems there is nothing to give the final push. All transmitters are broken and lying in pieces.

Like so much in this reality you never thought you would face.

Like everything.

The blazing symbols in your peripheral vision change with cruel precision. They do not slow down like they once would, like you hoped they would. But it was to be expected, wasn't it? A second a second, a minute a minute. You never deserved more. Never enough time. Not now. Not ever.

A gentle breeze arrives and it's only when it caresses and taunts your skin when you realize how badly you are burnt. Somehow you feel more relaxed. The heat is vanishing, replaced by a coolness. You are not troubled. Serenity overcomes you.

He jerks and turns around swiftly. You are tired. You are curious. You force your eyelids to open completely. Rest will come soon, but you want to see… what do you want to see?

A violet and orange blur appears before him. You've heard so much about the creature. Nearly as much as you have about him. On more than one occasion their names would appear right next to each other. Like all the other great pairs in your world. The protagonist and the antagonist. A battle of wits against speed. An innocent fight, compared to what was too come.

You always perceived the animosity between two.

Only this one time, you wouldn't understand.

You observe how they stare into each other's eyes. And in his you find sorrow, fear and anger all at once, a swirl of conflicting emotions. There is also something more, some delicacy directed at the newcomer. And buried deep beneath it all are both regret and encouragement. Are you omnipotent? Or is it just so easy to see?

No more than a second passes.

The bird has the note in his wing, prepares to run, and then is gone in a mere blink of an eye.

Wait. Turn around and look once more. Try to see. Try to dispel your blindness. Just try.

And now you understand it. The other pair of eyes answering the first. Eyes able to see, maybe even predict, the future. Eyes crystalline clear. Eyes you listen to and eyes carrying an audible whisper. And you close your eyes and you forsake your hearing and you open your heart and you feel.

The message will be delivered. And more and more and end.

And due to this single passing moment you could wonder how much more you are failing to see. How much time does it take to take in a second. How many realities are interwoven in this single moment.

For that one query, that one existence, you have seen enough.

A second passes. Past is inaccessible. Present rages forward like a mad beast. A second per second. Terrible velocity.

And past that long gone second the messenger is no longer within your sight. Your faulty ears deceive you, lying about his distant footsteps. Where is he? How far is he? How far in the present? How far in the future? Are those his footsteps? Is it something in the machinery collapsing from the pressure? Is it the echo of what is meant to be? Do you hear hundreds of lives diminishing and screaming? Are you hearing death itself?

You hear footsteps and the two red digits on the clock are reduced to a single one. And you can't even tell if anyone else noticed. Those next few seconds could change it all.

22 000 kilometers.

31 seconds.

No logical explanation.

The message was delivered on time.

And when you think how many lives were saved that very single second you witness the bliss of a fleeting dream.

Maybe one day it will once more be as it always was.

A purpose.

A reason.

Those next few seconds changed it all. Yet before them it was as it was. Noise, panic, fear. It all sways more than it should. Your fingers are wet, something thick clings to your eyes and obscures your vision. And then a glint of something catches your attention. Those next few seconds would change it all. He cries now.

He sees the future.

Silence. Whiteness. Blackness.

A month later, he will be standing alone on the road. Miles away, a funeral for a body never to be found will be taking place. He will not be amongst those grieving. He will be too different. He will feel too different.

He will stand alone. In the vast desert. Between great rocks and mountains. Surrounded by flowers charming in their own way.

He may have a bunch of flowers in his hand, even. Tulips, surely. He could cast them aside one by one and watch as they are carried away by the wind and disappear in the distance.

So many memories…

He would realize that so many things float by us and are gone in a heartbeat.. Would he be able to accept it?

And then, he would cry openly. He would recall all their struggles and fights. He would recall all the humiliations he had gone through. He would recall all the injuries he had sustained and all the nights he had spent working and scheming.

Above all else he would recall the bright smile that made every day worth living for. The cheerful eyes that brought happiness to him every time he saw them.

He would recall and he would cry.

He will always be coming back.

He will never forget.

And maybe, just maybe, in the desert soil he cried over, a single seed will grow and turn into a flower. A flower charming in its own way.

It will never be as it always was…

Silence. Whiteness. Blackness.

No.

Blackness. Whiteness.


End file.
